The World Spins and I and You
by themostrandomfandom
Summary: "They realized that this was what they missed last year—that this could be this year for them, if." Brittany helps Santana prepare for her part in "West Side Story." Canon-compliant to 3x05. Mouseverse. Two-shot.
1. Chapter 1

She tells Santana that Jerome Robbins [1] was like her—you know, a perfectionist.

"But I'm not, though," Santana says, snuggling into Brittany, face pressed against the plastisol print on her School of Music and Dance sweatshirt. Santana looks up and kisses at the underside of Brittany's chin, but misses. Her lips make a soft rucking noise against the air. Under the blanket, Santana and Brittany's hands twine, and, above it, colored light from the television screen plays over their faces in flashes. The house is October cool and still, except for their rustling and the bright, lively soundtrack to the movie mumbling in front of them.

"You are," Brittany tells Santana gently, petting lightly over the bones in Santana's hands. [2] When Santana draws a breath to protest, Brittany shushes her. "You wouldn't be doing this if you weren't. I love that about you."

She can almost feel Santana melt at that one. Heat passes over them.

"Well," Santana says.

A pause.

"This is like the sixth time we've watched this, San."

"Fourth."

They don't talk for a long while after that. Rita Moreno [3] and George Chakiris wheel in whirling mauve circles over the rooftop before them, married and unmarried.

(They don't tease quite like Anita and Bernardo do.)

(But.) [4]

Brittany notices that there are no stars in the sky behind the scene, just a purple-brown haze, like a bruised plum; Brittany knows about movie sets, of course, but she also knows about New York—knows New York, a bit, or feels acquainted with it, at least—and sees truth in how the skyscrapers shout light over the quiet stars, with everything above the buildings watercolor wash, murky and waiting, starless, unlike Ohio, and the dull, heavy brick behind them, earth toned. Brittany can't help but count the mixed meter to song: three-four and six-eight in patches, tapping it against the roof of her mouth with her tongue.

"He worked so hard filming the dances that the studio fired him for taking too long, but then he won an Emmy for his work afterwards."

"Did your dance instructor tell you that?"

"Yeah, when I told her you were in the play."

"You're in it, too, _chula_."

Mr. Schue probably doesn't even know that word and Brittany can't bring herself to ask Santana what it means just yet. She likes the way it sounds, though—sweet and just a little bit nervous, like the tremble of a plucked string—in Santana's voice. [5]

"Yeah," Brittany says, finally, melting a little bit herself. "Again?"

"Again."

Brittany reaches for the remote to reset the scene.

So.

* * *

><p>1. He choreographed the movie version of <em>West Side Story<em> in 1961—I remember that part because that's the year my aunt Linda was born. I saw a picture of him once; he wore these super fierce khaki sailor pants with a high waistline and did a perfect point-toed kick, even though he looked old in the picture, like with gray hair and everything. (It was hard to tell because the picture was black and white.) Most dancers age out by then, which is why they switch to choreography or they teach instead. My modern instructor would have told him he had good pelvic lift. Sometimes I choreograph for glee and Cheerios, even though I'm still dancing and I'm not really that old yet. I am older than almost everybody in our grade, though. Except for Quinn and maybe this one other kid who's in my social studies class. Santana says I'm good at it: at dancing, at teaching, at everything.

2. She is. In the sixth grade, we had to do this art project where we drew contour lines like that guitar guy from _Moulin Rouge _used to do on his dancing lady posters, and since she didn't think hers turned out right—you're not allowed to lift your hand when you draw contours, and she's a leftie, so—she didn't turn it in when the art teacher asked for it and she got a zero, even though she had it done on time and everything. When the teacher asked me where mine was, I told her that I accidentally returned it with my library books or maybe that I faxed it to Paris. I got a zero, too.

3. She thinks Rita Moreno is really pretty, but she won't put it that way. "They don't make movie stars like that anymore," she says instead, voice a little raspy, a little quiet, almost sad. Maybe she thinks that I'll get mad at her if she notices. Maybe she's mad at herself for noticing. Maybe she's embarrassed. I know it could be all of that, so I tell her, "Yeah, so beautiful," and stroke her hand. And she just smiles at me and nods a little, relieved; sometimes she's still so shy about the things she really wants.

4. Someday, she'll ask me and I won't be surprised at all. And she'll worry and think she's done something wrong, even though she hasn't, and she'll squoosh up her eyebrows all cute like she does, and her voice will get high and breathy and she'll say, "Um, a little help here, Britty?" and I'll just tell her: when we were fourteen, in your basement. You gave me a Ring Pop and I said yes. I always keep my promises. And I don't forget important things.

5. The night after we go out to dinner and hold hands under the napkin, she blurts it out while we're doing our Calculus B homework: "It means like 'girlfriend.' Or like 'my sweetie,' I guess. You know—_chula_? I thought, I...," and she looks at me with bright, quick eyes, like she's scared I'll push her off the bed onto the floor or something. Sometimes she really, really reminds me of a rabbit. A cute rabbit. Or like a cute mouse. Something cute, for sure. Timid. I laugh at her, because she needs that sometimes, and kiss her nose, because she needs that sometimes, too. I tell her I like it. And then I call her my lovergirl, and she says she likes that so, so much.


	2. Chapter 2

Brittany likes the fact that Artie wants the Jets to fill the aisles for this number; Santana mostly just likes Brittany, but she can get on board with the Jets thing, too, she thinks. [1]

"It means I get to look at you," Brittany tells Santana, smiling, walking them around Santana's room with big galumphing steps, hanging her hands on the collar of Santana's shirt. "I get to watch you sing up there in front of everybody instead of from behind the curtain."

Her feet follow where Santana's feet fall; Santana goes backwards and can't see what's behind her, but she trusts Brittany not to let her trip over anything. They're both in socks. Brittany smacks her blue gum and grins, steering Santana by the drawstrings on her Cheerios hoodie. When she rests her forehead against Santana's, her breath smells of sharp, chemical spearmint. Santana laughs, because, well.

(Perfect, perfect, perfect.)

Later, when Santana reminds Brittany that she's supposed to spend the scene glaring at the Sharks on stage and shouting abuse at Anita, Brittany just shrugs and gives a wicked smile. "I don't think my character would be mean to the most beautiful girl in New York." She burrows her hand into the popcorn bowl they share between them and throws Santana a sly wink. "Trust me: I know her anesthetic." [2]

(Adorable.)

At the rehearsal, Santana feels Brittany watch her. Brittany leans against Quinn, her elbow on Quinn's shoulder, her body a lazy zigzag, long and graceful in baggy dancer's clothes, eyes trained on Santana from across the stage. Brittany's probably the only one who notices Santana's breathlessness as the music starts—Brad's the only band member playing today; they won't assemble the full pit until next week—but she's also the only one who knows what a big thing it is for Santana to do this.

So.

It's just a gentle swing: Santana in orbit around Tina, her arm slung, momentarily, over the thinnest part of Tina's waist, then Tina's arm over hers.

And it shouldn't be a thing, because it isn't a thing, really. Brittany danced with a girl at the prom and no one cared. And cheerleading is kind of like dancing. And they dance in glee all the time, all of them, together—Tina, Rachel, Mercedes, Quinn, Brittany and Santana.

Why should this be different, then?

Santana just doesn't want someone to see what isn't there to see.

And she doesn't want anyone whispering if she hesitates.

She thinks back to the kitchen, yesterday, to the dimmed lights and last night, with Brittany curling around her from behind at the sink, linking her fingers over Santana's navel, sinking her chin into Santana's shoulder as Santana washed dishes in her mother's citrus detergent soap, bubbles foaming over her hands, filling up the stainless basin.

"You'll scrub your nail polish off," Brittany warned her, looking down at Santana scouring the last remnants of Kraft cheese sauce from the macaroni pot with a squeegee. "We should dance." [3]

At first, they both giggled at their reflection in the sliding glass door, Brittany so much taller than Santana, both of them in stocking feet, their hands set in formal waltz position. But then the laughter died away when they realized that this was what they missed last year—that this could be this year for them, if.

(So maybe it's all just hopelessly romantic. Maybe it's sweet. Maybe sexy, too.) [4]

"I'm used to leading," Brittany said, sliding Santana over the tile floor. "There are always more girls than guys in ballroom and I'm tall, so, you know." Their ribcages fit together. Their bodies buzzed with warmth.

"It's perfect," Santana told her. Then, nervously, "BrittBritt? Could we maybe practice that one part from the musical?"

"Totally," Brittany said, head cocked to one side, looking at Santana like she was brand new.

So.

Tina isn't tall like Brittany and the auditorium isn't Santana's lonely, quiet kitchen.

But Brittany gives Santana a nod from over Tina's shoulder and Santana's feet already know where to fall, so she steps forward, swinging into Tina when Mike gives her the go-ahead, and doesn't flinch or flush at all. Tina, for her part, just smiles, because Santana isn't as bad as everybody says she is sometimes. And Santana smiles, too, because, you know what? Sometimes she really thinks that this is what she was born to do.

The stage lights wash over Santana and she sees kaleidoscope color behind her eyes, her castmates in their street clothes catching their own cues all around her. Santana feels a laugh building in the back of her throat. She's already into the next "ONE, two, three, ONE, two, three" now and suddenly she can imagine the costume dress—the red and the black taffeta—murmuring around her legs, even though she doesn't have it yet. On Friday, they'll put the singing and dancing all together.

That night, as she slips into the locker room behind Brittany to change out of their dance clothes, Brittany whispers, "You're a good dancer, San," conspiratorial.

It isn't just about the play.

There's no one there, so they sneak a kiss, Santana in socks, Brittany still in her sneakers. Santana stretches against Brittany's body, standing on tiptoe to reach her lips, and sighs when she meets Brittany's mouth. For a second, they hold each other, Santana's hands on Brittany's shoulders, Brittany keeping Santana upright. Santana thinks of maybe homecoming or maybe prom or maybe.

Santana beams.

So. [5]

* * *

><p>1. Judgmental much? Who are you?<p>

2. "I and Velma ain't dumb. Are we, Velma?" I get it now. Perfect.

3. Cute.

4. Really cute.

5. I love her so much. I swear I'm gonna make this work.


End file.
